Focus on D-Day: A blast from the Past: The game is clearly afoot

EDITOR'S NOTE: In commemoration of the upcoming 70th anniversary of the D-Day invasion at Normandy, France, June 6, 1944, Battleship Cove Executive Director Brad King gets into character and transports us back in time to 1944 to capture the scene from his native England. King offers this series, written from the perspective o...

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By Brad KingBattleship Cove

The Herald News, Fall River, MA

By Brad KingBattleship Cove

Posted May. 31, 2014 at 12:00 PM
Updated Jun 5, 2014 at 10:01 AM

By Brad KingBattleship Cove

Posted May. 31, 2014 at 12:00 PM
Updated Jun 5, 2014 at 10:01 AM

» Social News

EDITOR’S NOTE: In commemoration of the upcoming 70th anniversary of the D-Day invasion at Normandy, France, June 6, 1944, Battleship Cove Executive Director Brad King gets into character and transports us back in time to 1944 to capture the scene from his native England. King offers this series, written from the perspective of a roving correspondent of the time.

I travel in the wake of troops heading south like some medieval camp-follower, hopping from truck to truck and tank to tank talking with the boys gathering in the gentle folds of the English countryside. It is obvious now that The Second Front is imminent.

Men and women (mainly nurses here) have arrived in various ”sausage camps,” so called as that is how they are drawn on the maps. They are loose areas where large formations — divisions and battalions — can come together and prepare.

I am now locked into an exclusive zone. Once behind the barbed wire and beyond the sentry there is no getting out. Secrecy is everything and the men need to focus on what lies ahead. All they need to think about is their training and briefing for the job they have to do. Check, check, check and double check weapons and equipment. Waterproof vehicles, load stores.

I come across some nurses who are on their way to a hospital in the west. They have been here for some special training. It seems these girls are going to be what they call “Nightingales” named after the famous Victorian nurse. But the analogy of the bird of the same name is apt as they will fly like birds into the beachhead in C-47 transports to bring back wounded as soon as a temporary airfield is built in the invasion area. The aircraft has been fitted with racks to take stretchers and they have been looking over what they will be calling “the office” at a local airfield.

I talk with another nurse, who is also on her way back to the same hospital. Born in West Virginia, Margaret Garcia shows me her coat lining, a warm woolen button-in insert to her raincoat. The nurses collect badges and patches from their patients and sew them on here as a colorful trophy board. For now, the patches belong to colleagues or supply corps personnel in hospital for minor injuries, but soon combat casualties will join the tapestry where every patch tells a story. I wonder how many more will be added in the days to come and will there be enough room?

I shake off the morbid reality and see that paratroopers are also there. They will drop in east and west of the main invasion area to secure vital bridges to keep German reinforcements from rolling up the invasion troops. They have to be self-sufficient and carry so much equipment they have to help each other buckle their parachute harnesses by lying down and having someone stand on their chests. Knives, grenades, ammunition, food, flashlight, everything has to be carried in with you. Weapons go into a bag attached to a long line on an ankle strap.

Page 2 of 3 - As the soldier tumbles out of the plane, the bag dangles from the line (looks to be about 15 feet) and dropping at night this is going to be a godsend. A thump in the dark night and a slackening of the line warns the paratrooper to prepare to “hit the dirt.” Naively I ask what they will do if they are surrounded. The officer says with a wry smile “We’re paratroopers! We’re supposed to be surrounded. …”

The briefings range from elaborate to intimate. First comes the overview, then comes the detail. Men concentrate on models of the coastline made in 1-foot squares. Joined up on the grass they show the area of the assault for this particular platoon or squad. Red lines and dots indicate minefields, machine gun positions, heavy weapons. Arrows point out designated beach exits, sector lines show who is on the left and right. The enemy is discussed. The history of the unit (its amazing how much is known) whether they are a fighting unit or resting from the Russian Front. Where is the enemy amour? What is the strength of the Air Force? When is the Navy bombardment starting? Is the RAF laying a smoke screen? What is the weather forecast?

There are a thousand question and, amazingly, just as many answers. This must be the best-informed, best-briefed army of any war. The one question that is not answered is, “When do we go?”

I sleep overnight in the local pub. Officers of the staff are billeted here and welcome custom for the landlord. I go back to the camp in the morning to find the place deserted. Overnight, the units have moved out and a silence hangs over the rows of tents. There is a forlorn message on one of the canvases in chalk “Sorry Jean, had to go.” A nurse? A local girl? There is no time for romance now. A hurried message is all that can be left behind, a story played out by every soldier in every army in every war down the ages.

I move down to the coast where the activity increases. Ships are everywhere and this is no exaggeration. Some say 7,000 are to be used and I can see why.

These seaside towns were once tourist areas for the British working families. Vacations have long gone and the tired facades of the Victorian seafront bustle with every type of soldier sailor and stevedore. Hard standings have been laid into ramps to take the weight of the mechanized armies loading here. The navies have got the hang of loading properly with everything going into the ships in the right order to come out. Tanks reverse into LSTs (Landing Craft, Tank) and men climb into troopships with their small LCAs (Landing Craft Assault) slung up for the journey across the channel.

Page 3 of 3 - The Sherman tanks look formidable. Tall and boxy, they will do well. The DUKW is here and is a design of genius. It is an amphibious truck that can change from boat to beach vehicle in a moment. Aptly named, the “Duck” will provide a supply lifeline to the men ashore in those vital early hours of the assault. Why DUKW? This is the designation given by General Motors. D the year of manufacture of 1942, U for Utility, K for All Wheel Drive and W for Dual Rear Axles.

I wander to one of the ships. I will be going over on a light cruiser and will transfer to her later. For now I am talking with some of the sailors who will pilot the landing craft into harms way to deliver their precious cargo of liberators. One is Bill Haley of Dorchester, Massachusetts.

The son of a gassed World War I veteran Egbert, he enlisted in the Navy in 1942 and has two brothers in the services. Bob is in the Navy and Jim in the Army. He is proud of all of them, a three-star family serving their country, far away from home.

Bob is a crewmember of LST-516 but he has volunteered to drive an LVCP — a small wooden landing craft for personnel and jeeps — when the time comes. He is manning a machine gun as well as keeping an eye on the engine. How do the enemies think they can beat such people? To quote Winston Churchill, “What sort of people do they think we are?”

We now ride at anchor and have been for two days. Still no word. Small silver barrage balloons float above us to ward of low-level air attacks. Many are queasy as the ships lift and roll and the smell of oil, men and ship-smoke test the sturdiest stomachs. The clouds lower and threaten, rain expected. For now, we are like a giant coiled spring waiting for the signal, the slightest hint of engines accelerating, orders being given.